There’s a moment that happens in almost every family, every workplace, every friend group—maybe even every church committee—where the conversation is supposed to be about what matters most… and somehow it turns into:
“Okay, but where do I sit?”

Not always literally. Sometimes it’s the seat at the table. Sometimes it’s the credit. Sometimes it’s the title. Sometimes it’s the last word. Sometimes it’s just the quiet question we carry around: Where do I rank in your heart? Where do I belong in the room?

And if we’re honest—especially in Lent—this question follows us more than we want to admit.

Today’s Gospel gives us one of the most human scenes in the whole New Testament.

Jesus has His disciples with Him, walking toward Jerusalem. He pulls them aside—almost like a huddle—and He tells them plainly what is coming: betrayal, suffering, death… and resurrection. In other words, He is speaking about the deepest things. The holy things. The costly things.

And then, almost immediately, a request rises up from the group that feels… painfully familiar.

“Teacher… could you do something for us?”
And when Jesus asks what it is, they say:
“Grant that we may sit—one at your right hand and one at your left—in your kingdom.” (Mt 20)

They don’t ask to be made faithful.
They don’t ask to be made brave.
They don’t ask to understand the cross.

They ask for seats.

And the timing is so awkward that it’s almost funny—until we realize it’s us.

Because we also have this ability to stand in the presence of holy things and still be quietly negotiating our status.

We can hear about sacrifice and still wonder, “Am I appreciated?”
We can pray about humility and still want to be noticed for it.
We can speak of love and still be tracking, in the back of our minds, who has more power in the relationship.

And Lent is gentle, but it is not naive. Lent knows this about us. Lent puts the mirror in our hands and says: Let’s look, not to shame you—just to heal you.

The road to Jerusalem and the road in our hearts

The disciples are on the road to Jerusalem. Jesus is walking toward what He knows will be His suffering—out of love.

But the disciples, like us, are hearing “kingdom,” and their imagination supplies something shiny. Their imagination supplies a throne. And thrones have seating charts.

If you’ve ever been to a wedding reception, you know the seating chart is not a minor detail. It’s social geography. It answers questions people don’t always say out loud:
“Do I matter to them?”
“Am I close?”
“Did they think of me?”
“Am I… important?”

And that’s what James and John want to settle. “We’ve left everything. We’ve followed. We’ve endured. We’ve believed. So… where do we sit?”

Now, before we scold them, notice something: there’s something good underneath their request. They want to be with Jesus. They don’t want to be far away. They want closeness.

But here’s the problem: they think closeness means privilege. Jesus is about to teach them that closeness means sharing His way of love.

And so Jesus responds with a question that is both tender and terrifying:

“Are you able to drink the cup that I am about to drink?”

In other words:
You’re asking for the crown—have you understood the cup?

You’re asking for glory—have you understood the cross?

Because in the kingdom of God, the right and left seats are not secured by ambition. They are embraced by love.

The cup we avoid and the cup we’re given

When Jesus says “the cup,” He isn’t speaking in poetry alone. In the Scriptures, the cup often represents what a person is handed—what they must receive, what they must carry, what they must endure, what they must accept.

And in Lent, we know something about cups.

Some cups are chosen: fasting, prayer, almsgiving—disciplines we take up freely.

But some cups are simply given: a difficult diagnosis, a strained relationship, a long season of uncertainty, a grief you did not invite, a responsibility you did not ask for, a temptation that seems to return no matter how many times you’ve said “not this time.”

And the disciples, for all their courage, don’t yet understand what Jesus is saying: that the path to His kingdom is not a ladder but a cross.

So they answer quickly. “We are able.”

And again, it’s almost endearing. They don’t know what they’re saying, but they say it with confidence because they love Him and they want the best place.

And Jesus—so patient—doesn’t crush them. He doesn’t shame them. He begins to reshape them.

Which is exactly what God is doing in Jeremiah today.

The Potter’s house: pressure that is mercy

In Jeremiah, God tells the prophet: “Go down to the potter’s house.”

Jeremiah watches the potter working on the wheel. And the vessel in the potter’s hand becomes marred—spoiled, not in a moral way, but in the way clay can collapse or warp. And the potter does not throw it away. The potter does something far more intimate:

He reworks it.

He presses it. He reshapes it. He reforms it. He makes it into another vessel, “as seemed good to the potter.”

And then God says: This is what I can do with you.

Which sounds comforting—until we remember what it feels like to be clay.

Because clay does not experience the potter’s hands as a warm compliment. Clay experiences the potter’s hands as pressure.

And that’s where Lent meets us: as pressure that is mercy.

The Lord is not out to discard us. The Lord is out to form us.

And the thing being formed is not simply our behavior. It’s deeper than that.

God is forming our desires.

God is forming our understanding of greatness.

God is forming the part of us that still thinks the kingdom is a room with VIP sections.

So Jesus takes the disciples’ question about seats and turns it into a new definition of greatness.

“You know how the rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them… It shall not be so among you.”

That sentence should land like a bell. Not so among you.

In my kingdom, it doesn’t work like that.

In my community, the way you measure greatness cannot be the way the world measures greatness.

Not the volume of your voice.
Not the number of people who answer to you.
Not the amount of recognition you receive.
Not the security you can command.

Instead:

“Whoever wishes to be great among you must be your servant… and whoever wishes to be first must be your slave…”

And then Jesus speaks the heart of it:

“Just as the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve.”

This is not just advice. This is revelation.

This is Jesus telling us what God is like.

If you want to know the shape of divine power, look at Jesus.
If you want to know the posture of divine authority, look at Jesus.
If you want to know what it means to be “high,” look at the One who kneels.

Psalm 31: learning to trust when you feel unseen

Now, that sounds beautiful… until you try to live it.

Because serving is often hidden.
Serving is often inconvenient.
Serving is sometimes thankless.
Serving can make you feel overlooked.

And that’s why the Psalm today is a gift. Psalm 31 gives voice to a disciple’s heart when the desire for “a seat” has been pried open and replaced with trust.

“Have mercy on me, O Lord, for I am in trouble… my life is wasted with grief… I have become a reproach to my enemies… they plot to take my life.”

That’s not the prayer of someone feeling successful. That’s the prayer of someone feeling exposed.

And then the pivot:

“But my trust is in you, O Lord… In your hands is my destiny.”

That line is Lent in one breath.

Because as soon as we stop chasing our seat, we must learn to live without the illusion of control.

And that can feel frightening. It can feel like we’re stepping off the stage. It can feel like we’re losing something.

But what we’re losing is not life. What we’re losing is the false life.

We’re losing the version of ourselves that requires applause to breathe.

And that is why Jesus is not harsh with the disciples. He is not trying to humiliate them. He is trying to free them.

A story we all recognize: the quiet negotiations of the heart

Let me put this in a story-sized way.

Have you ever had a moment where you did the right thing, the loving thing, the serving thing… and a small voice in you still whispered, “I hope they notice”?

You cleaned the kitchen, and you hoped for a comment.
You cared for someone, and you hoped they’d finally say, “Thank you.”
You took the hard shift, made the sacrifice, carried the load—
and somewhere in you, there was still a longing: Please see me. Please honor me. Please give me my seat.

That longing is not evil. It is human. It’s often the child in us asking for assurance.

But Jesus loves us too much to leave us there.

Because when that longing drives the car, even our good works become a quiet bargaining chip.

And Lent is the season when Jesus gently takes the keys.

He says: “Come with me. Walk with me. Let me show you another way.”

And that way is this: service that is not a strategy.
Service that is not a lever.
Service that is simply love.

And love, when it is real, doesn’t demand a seat. Love is willing to stand.

Practical Lent: three seats to release this week

So, what do we do with this today, pastorally, in a way that doesn’t stay theoretical?

Allow me to suggest three “seats” most of us are tempted to grab—and three ways Lent invites us to loosen our grip.

1. Release the seat of being right.
   Some of us fight for the right-hand seat in arguments. We want the final word. The win. The vindication.
   Lent says: try, once this week, to choose peace over victory. Not because truth doesn’t matter, but because love matters more than your ego.
2. Release the seat of being seen.
   Some of us do good, but we also quietly keep score—how much we gave, how much we carried, how little others noticed.
   Lent says: do one act of service that no one can repay and no one can applaud. Let it be “between you and God.” Let your Father who sees in secret shape your heart.
3. Release the seat of control.
   Some of us want a seat near the aisle so we can manage the room. We hold everything together. We stay anxious because anxiety feels like responsibility.
   Psalm 31 gives you a different sentence: “In your hands is my destiny.”
   Say it when your mind is racing. Say it when your plans wobble. Say it when you feel the urge to arrange the kingdom yourself.

The closing image: the right and the left are closer than we think

Now, the disciples asked for the seats at Jesus’ right and left in His kingdom.

Here’s the quiet irony Matthew wants us to feel: those “right and left” places will be filled… but not the way they imagine.

In Jesus’ hour of glory—when the world sees Him enthroned—He will be lifted up on the cross. And there will be one on His right and one on His left.

That is not God mocking their request. That is God revealing what glory truly is.

Glory is not domination. Glory is self-giving love.

And here is the mercy: Jesus doesn’t say, “How dare you want closeness.”
He says, in effect: “Yes—come close. But come close to this. Come close to the way I love. Come close to the cup. Come close to the cross.”

Because only then can we wear the crown without it ruining us.

So this Lent, if you feel the old question rising—Where do I sit? Do I matter? Will I be honored?—don’t be ashamed. Bring it to Jesus. Let Him ask you the gentler, truer question:

“Are you able to drink the cup?”

And then, one small choice at a time, let the Potter reshape your desires.

May God give us the grace to loosen our grip on the seats we crave, and to find our place where Christ is found—
not grasping, but giving;
not demanding, but trusting;
not seeking to be served, but learning to serve.

“In your hands is my destiny.”